


may we never change

by orphan_account



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bipolar Disorder, M/M, Reunions, Road Trips, Season/Series 07, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-11 01:26:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10451898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In which Mickey is released by error, Trevor is a sweetheart, and Mandy takes Ian on a road trip.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I am bitter, and honestly, this is pretty much the only reason why this fic exists. 
> 
> Again, huge thanks to my beta [ dellsey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dellsey) for her help.

“Tell me a story,” Ian says.

There's a thick layer of smoke between him and the ceiling. His eyes heavy and his legs tangled in purple sheets, Ian inhales from the bong Trevor hands him – the _dick-shaped_ bong that made him laugh the first time he saw it and all the times that followed. Trevor says Ian is fucking eight years old, and Ian laughs some more, because he's stoned, because he's breathing, because he's happy. 

The evening light paints the walls orange, the air smells like incense and lemonade and pot. They've been laying on Trevor's bed for way too long now, but it's ok, because it's Sunday and it's summer – moments like these are oxygen. Ian spends as much time as he can at Trevor's place – because it's the opposite of the chaos he's always known. Here, there are no ghosts of the past waiting for him at every corner.

Trevor is a friend – a good one. They fuck from time to time, but for the first time in Ian's life, it's not a big deal – it's peace. And he works for that peace, to keep it solid. He comes from work with food from the grocery store down the street, feeds Trevor's cat when he isn't there, apprciates every little thing Trev adds to his life whether it's a new place to eat or a new song to listen. It's peace.

“What kind of story ?” Trevor asks, turning his head to Ian. Brown eyes and sun kissed skin and bright smile, he's glowing.

“Dunno,” Ian says. The bong is in Trev's hands now. “Anything. A story.”

Trevor doesn't question it. “When I was a kid, I found a stray dog on the streets. She was missing a leg. I took her to the park we used to play at with my friends and shit. Then I went home with her and I asked my parents if we could keep her.” He inhales. The smoke coming out of his mouth paints distorted bodies in the air. “They wouldn't accept, because she was missing a leg, and they didn't have time to take care of a dog, let alone a disabled one, and I was too young to do it myself. My dad drove us to the shelter and made me say goodbye.”

“Is that why your cat's missing an eye?” Ian asks. “You picked her up because you were afraid other people wouldn't want it either?”

Trev smiles at him. “Your turn,” Trevor says. “Tell me a story.”

“What kind of story?”

Trevor shrugs. “A love story.”

Ian could say he's got plenty of love stories, but he's only got one. It's locked into a part of his mind he never dares approaching – but he's high and he's had one beer, and that's enough to have him spiral down into that memory. “Once upton a time,” he says, and Trevor laughs, “There was this though guy in the neighbourhood. We never really talked, and I never saw him as someone I would like to know better. One day, we had sex, and I fell in love.” He takes the bong from Trev's hands. “He was scared, and it was hard – but he did everything for me. He came out to his abusive father, one night – got in a fight after that. The asshole got arrested in the end, and me and the boy got back home.” He sees Mickey's smile, sincere and bright despite the red on his teeth – Mickey's voice, tired and raw and _happy_. “We had blood all over our faces and bruised ribs and chipped teeth. It was one of the best one of my life.” He doesn't tell about what happened after, doesn't tell about the sickness that crept into his head, doesn't tell about how he broke the boy's heart. He inhales. “He's the bravest man I've ever met,” he says. _He told me he loved me_ , he doesn't say. _He told me he loved me and I never did_. _I called him a coward_ , _but it's not true. He's the bravest man I've ever met_.

“He is,” Trevor says. He smiles.

He is.

*

Later, when they realize they're hungry, Trevor fixes them mac and cheese. They eat it on the bed. The cat is standing in Ian's lap, trying to steal some pasta whenever he can, and Trevor is listing movies that they could watch.

“ _Pride_ sounds nice,” Ian says.

“Good choice,” Trevor says. “It's history.”

The movie is nice. Ian enjoys the peace.

Later, the cat falls asleep on him, and Ian falls asleep on Trevor.

*

The night after that, he goes home to find Liam watching TV and Debbie packing some of her stuff.

“Lip will be there in an hour for Liam,” Debs says when Ian asks if there is anyone else. It hits him, sometimes, how empty his house is, with Carl in military school and Lip sleeping around and Debbie living with her fucking _fiancé_ and Fiona working and working and working. He would never get evenings so quiet, a few years ago. “How's your boyfriend?” Debs asks.

“Not my boyfriend,” Ian says. “Friend.”

“Oh,” Debs says.

“Why did you want me to come over?”

Debbie stuffs a pile of t-shirts in her suitcase. “Mandy's here for you,” she says.

And Ian thinks he may have dreamed that.

*

Since she's been gone, it's like Mandy never existed. Not because Ian doesn't think of her – he does, sometimes, all the time – but because she didn't left anything behind her. Mickey left a jacket on Ian's bed and cigarette butts on the window sill ashtray and a giant hole in Ian's heart, and if it isn't a lot, it's still something.

Two weeks after she was gone, Ian wondered if she had even been there – and he knows he was being delirious, at the time, but it was easy to slip into that thought when Mandy had made herself a ghost story.

When Ian opens the door of his own room, Mandy's there, in the flesh, sitting by the window. When she sees him, abandonning whatever she was looking at on her phone, her eyes are real and  _alive_ , and Ian knows she is not a ghost, she never was. Mandy is there, Mandy is real. Her hair is still blonde, like the last time. She's the same as used to be – before she left, not like the last time he saw her, with blood on her dress and panic creeping under her skin. 

She's wearing a black tank top and jean shorts and sneakers, and Ian can see her, four years ago, climbing down the stairs of this same house with nothing under her long t-shirts, a malicious grin on her face everytime she would say something obscene.

“You're here”, she says, and then the space between them is closed, because she's hugging him with all the strength she's got, tiptoeing, clinging on his shoulders, like she's gonna fall if she lets go – but Ian holds her tight, forever will.

But she does let go, and when she looks at him again, her smile could warm up the whole world. “I'm here,” Ian says. “I missed you,” he says.

“Missed you too, moron,” she says.

Ian rests his chin on her shoulder. Her hair smells like shampoo and smoke. “When did you come back?”

“Three hours ago,” she says. “Debbie let me in. I can't believe how fast she grew up. I can still remember her coming at my door for make up advice with lipstick all over her face.”

“Yeah,” Ian says, chuckling. “She has a kid now.”

“Wow, jeez, that's – what the fuck,” and she laughs, she laughs. “We're so old, man.”

And Ian laughs, Mandy's slim waist still between his arms, Mandy's forehead against his shoulder – not a ghost, real, alive, true. “Yeah,” Ian says. “Yeah, we are.”

“Brought some beers, if you want,” Mandy says as she lets go of him, placing some hair behind her ear. “I didn't know when you would be back so I put them in your fridge to keep them fresh and shit – they would have fucking boiled if I had let them in the car.”

One time, Mandy invited him in her room – she had a bottle of vodka hidden in one of her drawers. They emptied it, told each other their secrets, filled the night with their laughters. Then Mandy puked, and Ian fell asleep – he doesn't remember what they said, that night.

“Want to go to the wasteland?” Mandy asks. “We can have a drink there. Like the old times. So you tell me about what's been going on in your life and stuff.”

Ian smiles. “Only if you do, too.”

And Mandy smiles. “Deal.” She pecks him on the lips.

Like the old times.

*

Mandy tells him about her new life, on the ride to the vacant lot – the _wasteland_. “It kept like, happening,” she says. “Guys acting fucking crazy and shit. There hasn't been, like – any other _accident_ after what happened the last time I saw you, but I had to leave several hotel rooms because some clients were being violent, and they wouldn't give me the money because I wasn't paid for leaving early. Had to cut it and find something else. Didn't like the idea of possibly getting hit or slapped by old dudes everytime I got out for work anyway.”

Ian takes the cigarette that's stuck between her fingers, puts it between his lips. “What did you do?”

“I started doing porn,” Mandy says, and Ian laughs.

“No shit,” he says.

“What?” Mandy exclaims, and she stops looking at the road for one second, driving her attention to him, her eyebrows quirked.

“I did some porn, too,” Ian says, handing her back the cigarette.

It takes her a second or two, but then she laughs too. “Shit, man,” she says. “When?”

“I only did it once,” Ian says – for one second, Mickey's face flashes in his mind. Mickey, who had waited for him all night, Mickey who decided to forget he was hurt because Ian was more important, Mickey who wanted to take him to the hospital just before Ian stole his goddamn son. “I needed some quick money. Won't do it again.”

Mandy sucks on the cigarette. They opened both windows, but the car is still filled with smoke. “Yeah, me neither.”

“You stopped?”

Mandy doesn't answer to that. “So, what was your name?” she asks with a smug grin.

“My name?”

“Yeah. Your porn name.”

“Oh – they didn't ask for one. Guess they called me _hot muscular ginger top_ in the title of the video.”

Mandy chuckles. “Such a humble man,” she says.

The car stops, and Ian notices they've reached the wasteland. “What was yours?” He asks.

“Like I'm gonna tell you.”

“Come on, I told you mine!”

“ _Hot muscular ginger top_ doesn't count as a name. And I don't want you to be able to watch anything that I did.”

“I'm gay, Mandy. And even if I wasn't, I wouldn't – it would feel like incest anyway.”

Mandy turns her eyes at him, and here are the malicious eyes again. “You promise?”

“I promise.”

“Pinky promise?”

Ian sticks his pinky out. “Pinky promise.” Mandy takes it.

“Bazooka.”

“That's – surprising.”

“You've ever heard about this game to figure out your porn name?”

“The name of your first animal plus the street you lived at as a kid?”

“Yeah.” Mandy takes the cigarette back. “That would have lead to Bazooka Middleton for me. Except that it's fucking ridiculous, so I just kept Bazooka.”

“You had a pet named Bazooka?”

“A dog. Our dad got her before Mickey was born. She died when I was nine.” Mandy opens the door. “She was fucking badass.”

As they walk through the land, looking for a place to sit, Ian remembers the times he would come here with Mandy – they stopped way before she left, and he doesn't know why. He remembers Mandy with pink in her hair and smudged make-up, the cold air of the winter evening they could have avoided by just hanging out at each other's places if they didn't like being just the two of them that much. The wasteland is so far away Ian had forgotten about it – and yet, they're sitting on an abandonned sofa, hot under their legs from being exposed to the sun, opening their beers and hoping they haven't warmed up yet.

Mandy drinks half of her can, all at once. Ian is slower, careful. “Shit, look at me. I said we were gonna hang out so you could tell me about you, and yet I'm the only one who talked.”

“There's nothing much to say,” Ian says.

“Bullshit”, Mandy says, stretching her legs, spreading them on the sofa, resting her feet on Ian's knees. “Tell me what you've been doing.”

“Besides porn?”

Mandy chuckles. “Besides porn.” She takes another sip. “Still with that fireman you told me about last time?”

“Nah,” Ian says. “Turns out fucking girls wasn't cheating to him.”

Mandy raises an eyebrow. “Weird,” she says.

“Yeah,” Ian says. “One thing I can't take from him is that he pushed me into getting that job, though. Still got this one.”

“That's so cool,” Mandy enthuses. “Saving lives and shit.” Ian tries not to think about the woman who almost killed herself because he unbuckled her, or the one who told him words for her son, words he couldn't understand, just before she died.

“Yeah,” he says. “And I'm sick,” he says, and he didn't mean to. Mandy's smile disappears, and her blue eyes are on him. “Bipolar disorder,” he says.

She finishes her beer, and she doesn't look at him anymore. She looks at the skies – orange, yellow skies. “Your sister said you could have it,” she says after a while. “That time you wouldn't get out of bed. You remember? Mickey was worried, and he called your siblings, and Fiona said that. Mick wouldn't believe her.” She bends down to grab another can. “I wouldn't either – probably because I had no clue about what it really was, at the time, even if Fiona expained it. I think I still don't. But you would act all weird, sometimes, and I kept wondering – if it was that.” Mandy seems to consider opening the can or not. She doesn't – instead, she moves her legs from the couch, sitting closer to Ian, and rests her head on his shoulder. “I'm sorry,” she says. “Is it like – something you can heal?”

Ian gulps a sip of his drink. “No,” he says. “But I take my meds, now, and I'm better. Sometimes they make me sleep a lot, sometimes they don't work well enough and I have to go to a shrink, and I'm dazed after like, one beer.” He notices Mandy's hand in his – _like the old times_. “But it's ok, most of the time. Having a job helps – it's nice to have a purpose. I'm doing good.”

“I'm glad if you do,” Mandy says, and Ian knows that it's not out of pity, knows that she's being honest, that she believes him.

They talk until the sun goes down, until the hot day turns into a warm night. They let the summer air kiss their bare skin, wipe some remaining sweat away from their foreheads with the hems of their t-shirts. And Ian remembers, the cold evenings, the dark winters.

They talk about their jobs – Mandy still doesn't say why she quit, but Ian understands. She says she has to find somewhere else to work, now. She says she'd like to do something useful, like him, but she doesn't have the brains or the guts.

The last time he saw her, Mandy said that just because they were born here didn't mean they had to end up here – he wants to tell Mandy she can do anything. Mandy, who thinks the only way to survive is to take her jeans off, Mandy, who never believed she could become anything except for a waitress or a hooker, can do anything.

“There's something,” Mandy says. They're out of beers and almost out of cigarettes. “I came back for a reason – there's something I need to tell you and I don't know how.”

“You mean you didn't come just to see my pretty face?” Ian says jokingly. “I'm offended, Mands.” But Mandy's face is serious as she's staring at the city lights, holding whatever secret she keeps until she finds the right words. “Hey,” Ian says, his smile fading. “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

“Yeah,” Mandy says. She says: “Mickey.” She says: “He's out.”

And Ian's heart stops. “What?”

Mandy lights another cigarette. It's the last one. “Told me they released him by error. I didn't believe him, thought he had escaped – but I checked, and he's not wanted anywhere, so I guess that means I have to trust what he said.” She pauses. Inhales some smoke. Hands Ian the cig. “He called me when he got out – he hadn't since I left. I didn't even know he still had my number.” She makes a move, because she's still hodling the cigarette – he takes it. “He asked me if he could crash at my place for a while, so I bought him a plane ticket for Orlando.” She lets out a little laugh – tired and empty. “I should have told him to fuck off. It's been a while we stopped being nice to each other.”

“Orlando?” Ian says, and it's stupid, because there's so much more, but it's the only thing he manages. “Why Orlando?”

“Got a place there a year ago,” Mandy says. “Company I used to work with was based off in Orlando.”

“Oh,” Ian says, and then he says nothing. Neither does Mandy. They keep sharing that last cigarette, handing it to the other at each drag they take until there's nothing left. When Ian looks at Mandy, she's searching for stars she doesn't see. You rarely ever see the stars here, whether it's summer or winter.

There's been a summer, though, forever ago, where there were stars. Ian was laying on the grass with Mickey on his side and the burning smell of weed in his nose. They stayed outside for hours, that night – Ian doesn't even remember what they did, what they said, and it's a shame, really, because there were stars.

“Why coming to me?” Ian asks. He doesn't know how much time has passed.

Mandy isn't looking at him. “Because I left him the keys of my flat, saying a friend was in trouble and I had to go check if she was ok, and I lied,” she says. “Because if there was a chance you would come with me if I asked you, I had to come back there.”

And Mickey could have gone back to his house, instead of going to Mandy's place in fucking Orlando – but his house has blood stains on the floor everywhere, empty beds and drawers full of nightmares, his house isn't his home and never has been. Home is family, and his own has never been one. He would use that word for Ian – _family_. He doesn't have that either, now – Ian took that from him, because he was too scared both to be unloved and to be loved so violently. “Why?” Ian asks.

Mandy turns her head. Her eyes are on him, now. “You love him, right?” she says.

There's a drawer in Ian's cupboard where Mickey used to put his shirts. Ian hasn't opened it since Mickey went to jail – the thoughts haunts him, sometimes, sure, but it's a forbidden move, because he's been working so hard on convincing himself and the others that he didn't need Mickey, that he was better off without him, that Mickey only ever brought shit in his life anyway. Mickey, who decided to be brave, for him – not only the day he came out to his father, but the very moment he decided that he trusted Ian enough to get on his fours and let him touch his back and grab his hips and fuck him into the matress. Mickey, who was the kid that never cried, even with blood on his face, Mickey who had eyes full of tears when Ian told him that he was leaving, one time, two, three. Mickey who took care of him, full of fear and love and hope, Mickey who stayed at his side when the meds buzzed him too much and did everything to make him feel, Mickey who kept him alive with all the strength that he could find.

“Yeah,” Ian says. “Yeah, I do.”

There's a drawer in Ian's cupboard where Mickey used to put his shirts. Ian hasn't opened it since Mickey went to jail, because it would mean destroying all the lies he's build from himself, all the walls that keep him from missing, missing, _missing._

“Thought so,” Mandy says.

*

“I'll come back tomorrow,” Mandy says once the car is in front of the house. “You think about it. I'll be there around four in the afternoon, 'kay?”

And her eyes say _come_ , _please, come_. She's missed him, and he's missed her, too. “Alright,” he says. “See you tomorrow.” Ian almost falls when he gets out of the car.

“Wow, the meds _really_ made a pussy out of you,” Mandy says. “Need some help to get to the door, Princess?”

Ian gives her the finger.

*

_**You (10:38pm):** can you come over tonight _

_**Trev (10:52pm):** man it's like 11 _

_**Trev (10:53pm):** do you miss my hot self that much _

_**You (10:55pm):** oh shit yeah I didn't see the time _

_**Trev (10:57pm):** everything ok? _

_**You (10:58pm):** yeah just _

_**You (10:59pm):** I may need to talk about things idk _

_**Trev (11:01pm):** i'll be there right over _

_**Trev (11:09pm):** want me to bring some pot? _

_**You (11:12pm):** you're an angel you know that _

_**Trev (11:13pm):** ;) _

*

“Tell me a story,” Trevor says as he lights up the joint he just rolled. The windows are open – they always are, on these hot, hot days – but Ian still hopes it won't smell like weed in the morning.

Trevor hands him the joint, and Ian takes a long drag. “Once upon a time,” he says, “I used to be with that brave, brave boy.” He pauses. Trevor listens, patient, attentive, waiting for Ian to keep going, his elbows resting on his knees. “I got really bad, after the night he came out,” Ian says. “I think I already was before. And I thought it would make him run – I thought he would leave, but he didn't. I broke up, because I was afraid he would, and I couldn't stand that.” _He told me he loved me_ , he doesn't say, _and I never did_. “Then he went t prison – that's a long story,” he adds when he sees Trev's look. “He went to prison, and he's out now, and his sister is coming tomorrow to check if I want to go see him with her and I don't know what to do –” He takes another drag, and it burns his lungs. “I miss him,” he says. “I've never stopped missing him.”

Trevor takes the joint. “Then why are you hesitating?” he says.

“Because I fucked it up,” Ian says. “Because we fucked it up before, and because we will fuck it up again – there always will be some shit trying to destroy us, and that's fucking life, I know, but we never knew how to handle anything, never knew how to talk, and I don't want to fuck it up once more.”

Trevor gives him the joint back, and again, it burns. “Then talk” Trev says. “Learn how to,” he says. “Listen to each other, grow up together.” He smiles. “Go see him. _Talk_ , for fuck's sake.”

Ian smiles. They already did – grow up together. Mickey was never one to talk, but he tried to, always tried to, even when Ian wouldn't, no matter the shit Ian told himself and the others about Mickey not being able to have a conversation – he did his fucking best.

He remembers the last night they got, remembers yelling at Mickey for giving a shit, for wanting to save him, for _trying._ Mickey always tried, even when Ian wouldn't, and Ian wants to try, now – and yeah, maybe they can learn.

They can learn.

“Yeah,” Ian says. “Ok.”

He breathes.

*

When Mandy comes to pick him up, the day after, Ian's got one of Mickey's shirts on him and spare clothes and two cigarette packs in his bag.

“Guess that's a yes,” Mandy says with a shit-eating grin when he opens the door to get on the passenger seat. “You're sure about that?”

Ian just nods, and Mandy smiles harder.

“Good,” she says. “Let's drive, then?”

Ian smiles too. “Let's drive,” he says.

*

They stop at a grocery store before leaving town. “If we make enough miles tonight and wake up before ten, we can be at my place by tomorrow night,” Mandy says as she throws a box of Twinkies in the shopping basket. “Or we can take our time and arrive in two days, but I'd rather avoid sleeping in a motel two nights in a row. You like sour cream flavored chips?”

“Yeah,” Ian says.

“Good,” Mandy says, grabbing a bag. “I'll buy something nice for us to have a proper dinner later,” she says.

_Us_ isn't a word that Ian would have thought would apply to them again.  _Us_ – Ian and Mickey, Ian and Mandy, Ian and Mickey and Mandy – is something so weird to think about now, a notion so old it's new, something he has to get used to again. “Cool,” he says, and his voice is a bit flat.

Mandy notices. “Don't worry,” she says. “Don't worry. It will be fine.”

Mandy notices, Mandy knows.

Ian remembers afternoons at the Milkovich house, him losing at Mortal Kombat against Mandy and Mickey barely leaving enough room for them on the couch; nights under the bleachers, under the stars, Mickey opening beer after beer, Ian breathing every moment they had – every joke they shared, every story they told, every time they fucked; mornings in bed, their minds still foggy with sleep, hands pressing on hips and lips pressing on lips, whispering secrets that no longer were.

And it's been so long it's been so, so long.

“It won't be the same,” Ian says.

Mandy nods. “No,” she says. “It won't be.” She picks another bag of chips – barbecue flavored. “It's never the same,” she says. “People change – but some things never do, you know? Even if you changed, even if he did, you're still yourself, and he's still himself, just like I'm still myself – we're still us.” _Us_ . “And he loves you,” Mandy says. “That didn't change. I wouldn't have asked you to come with me if I wasn't sure of that. He loves you, and you love him – that's enough, right?”

Ian hopes it is. “Right,” he says. And then, “we should buy sandwiches. I already tried surviving on chips and sweets a few times. It's not the best experience to have.”

“Yeah,” Mandy says. “Tell me something I don't know.”

As they walk across the aisles to find something more consistant to eat, Mandy stops in the hair care section. It takes a few seconds for Ian to notice she isn't following him anymore. “What're you doing?”

“You think I'd look hot as a redhead?” Mandy says with a grin, a box of dye in her hand.

“Do whatever you want, but I'm not helping you dye your hair.”

“I was gonna ask you.”

“I have no clue how to do that.”

“Don't care. I'm gonna look sexy as hell anyway – I mean, not as sexy as _hot muscular ginger top_ , but still.”

“Oh, shut up.”

*

_**Trev (9:17pm):** hey :) _

_**Trev (9:17pm):** everything ok? _

_**You (9:18pm):** heyyyy _

_**You (9:19pm):** yeah everything good _

_**You (9:19pm):** we just got to kentucky, stopped in a motel _

_**You (9:19pm):** mandy wants me to dye her hair it's gonna be a mess _

_**Trev (9:21pm):** wow I wouldn't trust u to take care of my hair if I was her _

_**You (9:22pm):** I knOW ME NEITHER _

*

“My bangs're getting in my eyes,” Mandy says as she's unpacking the box. “Do I cut them or do I let them grow?”

“If you're gonna ask me to cut them, then let them grow.”

“You're no fun.”

“Is it normal that there are so many things to mix?” Ian asks, observing Mandy as she opens the cap of a small tube to empty its content in the larger bottle.

“How did you think it was supposed to be done?”

“I don't know. Thought they gave you a single product to apply on your hair, not a fucking science kit.”

“Well, welcome back in chemistry class,” she says. “Hold that for me.” She hands him the bottle. “So, basically, you have to go piece by piece, from the roots to the ends,” she takes a lock of her hair and shows him, “like that. It's simple.”

“If it's so simple, why don't you do it yourself?”

Mandy takes off her t-shirt. “Because I can't see the back of my head, asshole.” She lifts the upper part of her hair up, tying it on the top of her head so it doesn't get in the way. “Begin with the underside,” she says. “Easier that way.”

“This is gonna be a goddamn disaster,” Ian sighs. He takes a piece of Mandy's hair in his gloved hand. “Shouldn't we get something to cover your back? It's gonna leave stains on your bra.”

Mandy shrugs. “I have other ones.”

“So I just have to like, squeeze the thing and then get it on the rest of your hair with my hand?”

“Yeah. That's how it's done, Gallagher.”

“Sorry for not being a genius hairdresser, bitch.” Ian squeezes. The product that gets out of the tip is as red as blood. “Holy shit. Isn't this gonna make your hair red? I mean, real red. Not-like-me-red.”

“Nah,” Mandy says. “It's always a darker shade before you rinse it off. Who the fuck cares - I'm sure I'd rock with red _red_ hair anyway. Remember when I had red extensions?”

“Weren't they pink?”

“The package said _raspberry red_. Who the fuck knows what that means.” Ian keeps applying the dye to Mandy's hair, finding the thing easier to do as more and more get coated in red. Mandy stays still, used to that kind of process going on on her head, and she talks about everything - a bad movie she's seen recently, her life in Orlando, the new friends she made and the old ones she doesn't miss. “Except you,” she says. “You, I missed.”

“I know,” Ian says. “I'm actually quite surprised you survived that long without seeing my gay ass.” Mandy tries to nudge him from where she is. It doesn't work very well. “Hey, don't move. You don't want me to fuck up your hair.”

“I'd still look better than you,” Mandy says.

“Cunt.”

“Bitch.”

They give each other smiles in the mirror.

*

When Mandy finally rinses her hair off after a good thirty minutes of Ian working on it and another thirty minutes of letting it apply, Ian's arms are sore from having them lifted for so long. When Mandy comes out of the bathroom, telling him to come and see, her hair is dry and she's put her shirt back on. 

Ian looks at her in the mirror. The bathroom light is dirty, yellow, doesn't give them any advantage - it shows Ian's circles and the imperfections of his work on Mandy's hair. The red faded into something more orange, but it's still too bright to seem natural, with some parts darker than some others. But Mandy doesn't seem to care – she's grinning like a motherfucker.

“Look at us,” she says, meeting his eyes in the mirror, as her arm slides on his waist. “We're siblings.”

Ian puts his arm on her shoulder. “Yeah,” he says. “We are.”

*

They leave the motel at six in the morning. It takes longer for Ian to wake up, and after a few unsuccessful attemps of getting him on his feet, Mandy gives up and tells him toi join her in the car when he manages to drag his ass out of bed.

When Ian get out of the hotel, Mandy's on the passenger seat, putting some mascara on, looking at her reflection in the camera of her iPhone. Her now orange hair is tied in a ponytail. She's wearing a black Myrath t-shirt – one he's already seen her wearing back to when they were fifteen – and her high waisted jeans are ripped at the knees. When Ian gets on the driver's seat, Mandy puts on some sunglasses – Ian thinks he recognizes the logo from Chanel, but for all that he knows, he could be something else. “Fucking finally,” Mandy says. “I thought you had fallen asleep. Was considering on going back up there to wake you up.” She stretches her arms in front of her. “Took your meds?”

Ian yawns. “Not yet. Gotta eat something first.”

“'kay. We'll grab something on the way. I'm gonna Google for some cheap coffee place.” She pulls her phone out. “Can you drive? 'm tired of yesterday's ride.”

“Yeah. Just let me – like, wake up and stuff.”

“Alright.” She turns at him, eyes invisible under the shades – the thick frame is a light pink, almost white. “You do that, Princess.”

“Fuck off.”

*

“Let's make some toasts,” Mandy says as she sits on the hood of the car.

They've stopped at a gas station somewhere in Alabama – near Montgomery, Mandy's phone says. Mandy's phone also says they still have seven hours to go. Ian has slept so much during the past four that he doesn't know if he'll be able to fall asleep again – not mentionning that falling asleep on the front seat of a car isn't that much of a pleasant experience. He has to drive anyway – he already was supposed to, this morning, before Mandy decided she could let him sleep a little bit more until the next stop.

One of the many times Frank and Monica pretended to themselves they were good parents, they took them on a holiday – they hadn't told them were. _It's a surprise_ , Monica said. Ian remembers the fragility of her voice, how he would think his mom was just too sweet, how he would learn, later, that she was sick, and a drug addict, and a very, very bad mother. They were only three of them, back then – soon to be four. Lip was bored, Ian was excited, and Fiona told them both to sleep so the ride would seem shorter. They did. When they woke up, it was because a cop had stopped them for driving under influence. They spent the next five days in foster care – the first time Ian can remember, but Fiona told him it had happened two times before that, when he was still a baby, unable to walk or to talk.

“I'm not drinking anything,” Ian says. “'s my turn to drive.”

“Orange juice toasts, then.”

“What's the point of orange juice toasts?”

Mandy's already pouring some juice in the two plastic cups they got from the coffee machine, inside the gas station. Their toasts might taste a little bit like coffee, might be a little bit disgusting, but Mandy doesn't seem to care. “I don't know,” she says. “Feels good to celebrate some stuff, right?”

Ian smiles. “And what's to celebrate?”

She gives Ian one of the cups and raises hers. “Here's to the South Side,” she says, “for not having us killed yet. May it keep us alive a little bit longer.” She empties her cup – Ian does, too. He wonders what that means, wonders if Mandy's planning on coming back – the question almost leaves his mouth, but he holds it. “Your turn?”

Ian shrugs. “I don't have any idea.”

“Find one.”

“Ok.” Ian coughs. “Here's to our road trips,” he says, “for making our lives look like movies. May we cross the whole country, and may we set it on fire.” He empties his cup – Mandy does, too. She's already filling them again. “Take it easy,” Ian says. “Don't pour too much. Not sure I'm gonna be able to swallow that all at once.”

“Thought you were good at swallowing.”

Ian smiles. “Better than you, that's for sure.”

And Mandy's right – it feels good to celebrate. Even on the hood of a car parked under the very few shadows you can get at noon – just the two of us in a gas station in the middle of Alabama, with orange juice, even if they have to make up reasons to celebrate. They're far from everything, like a parallel universe where their lives didn't happen and the future won't either. Ian can still pretend his ribs aching and his throat clenching have nothing to do with the anticipation of what's going to happen tonight – they still have seven hours to go.

“Here's to us,” Mandy says.

Ian looks at her.

“May we grow stronger, or may we never change.”

“A-fucking-men.”

They emtpy their cups.

Seven hours to go.

“Shit,” Mandy says. “I'm gonna need to piss so fucking bad, man.”

*

They switch places when they see the Orlando sign, because Mandy knows the way from there, and it will be easier if she's the one to drive.

Ian watches the city slowly emerge through the passenger window, house by house, shop by shop, getting more real at every mile they make, and he thinks that soon, he won't be able to pretend the end of the world isn't coming.

*

Mandy drops him on the parking of her building. “3th floor,” she says. “Right in front of you when you're done climbing the stairs. It's the door with the bright pink mat, you cant miss it.”

“You aren't coming?” Ian asks, but it's stupid, it's obvious – of course Mandy isn't coming, of course she's leaving them alone.

Because it's stupid, because it's obvious, Mandy doesn't answer to that. “Go,” she says. “I'll come back tommorrow morning. Call me if anything's wrong.” Before going, she adds : “And don't be a fucking pussy.”

*

And Ian has no plan, no idea of what he's gonna say or do, of what Mickey's gonna say or do – it was so easy, at a time, to anticipate his actions, because he _knew_ him, so well. He had grown bold and fearless, with time, and maybe it was a little bit _because_ of Mickey – maybe the mere act of being with him in any way makes you tough. Not because you have to fight _him_ , but because you have to get used to all the things he has to fight.

And you do – you fight for him.

*

When Mickey opens the door, he's the same as Ian last saw him – except he isn't wearing an orange blouse, thanks God. Clean shaved, his hair cut, his skin pale, his eyes blue. For one second, Ian thinks nothing has changed – but Mickey isn't saying anything, and Ian doesn't even hear him breath. “Gallagher,” he says after a while, almost formal, almost cold, _almost_. Ian remembers the ugly tattoo on Mickey's chest, his name mispelled and infected on his skin.

“You look good” is the only thing he manages to say. He hates himself.

Mickey has a dry laugh, tired and forced. “Not much to do there but work out.” He takes a sip in the bottle of beer in his hand. Ian didn't notice he was holding it. “Mandy told you I was here?”

“Came to my place to take me in her car and drive me here.”

“Jeez.” A dry laugh, and then another sip. “Should have known that bitch was lying.” His eyes land on Ian's chest. “Is that my shirt?”

And Ian laughs – nervous, afraid, _happy?_ “Yeah,” he says. _There's a drawer full of your clothes in my house and I was scared to open it because I didn't want to miss you_ , he doesn't say, _but I missed you, I missed you, I still miss you –_

Mickey finishes his beer in one take. “You gonna come in or stay there like an idiot? Have a few bottles left – if you can have booze – if you _want_.” He moves, so Ian can get past him and get inside, and Ian does. “Think there's some Gatorade somewhere,” Mickey says. “If you don't want the beer.”

And it would be so easy for Ian to slip into that path, to get himself drunk so he can say all the things he never said, so he can tell all the secrets he hid under his bed during Mick's absence – but he knows better than that, knows he'll regret it if he allows himself to be weak. “I'll take Gatorade,” he says, and Mickey disappears in the kitchen.

“Doing good with the meds?” Mickey says from over there.

The living room is messy – probably both Mickey's fault, but Ian doubts it was any better when he wasn't there yet. “Yeah,” Ian says as he sits on the sofa. “Got better once I got adjusted to it. It's still shitty, sometimes, but it's ok.”

“Good,” Mickey says, and then nothing. He comes back into the room a minute later with one drink in each hand. “So tell me,” he says, handing Ian the bottle of Gatorade, “how's life?”

Ian wants to laugh about how absurd this is, wants to scream, because they should already be drowning in each other, or talking about _things_ , at least, real things – and it feels like they're back to when he was fifteen and Mickey wouldn't admit they were _something_ , acting like a good old bro, telling Ian about who he had fucked and asking him if he'd had any ass, as if what they did – in the back of the shop, under the bleachers, in Mickey's bed sometimes – belonged to another dimension and was lost and gone as soon as it was over. “Good,” Ian says. “Good. Got a job. Got the family. Got friends.” The cap of the bottle falls on the floor. And Ian wants to say something, but _how are you doing_ sounds like a stupid thing to say. “I missed you,” he says instead, and he hates himself the second these words cross his mouth.

Mickey stays still for a while – he doesn't look at him, and Ian doesn't even know if he really has since he's gotten there. He takes a sip of his drink in a quick move Ian's learned to identify throughout the years – it means _nervous_ , it means _I don't wanna be here,_ it means _let's not talk about this_. “Yeah,” he says, and he doesn't add anything else.

“Mick –”

“You never fucking visited me.”

He thinks Mickey falling asleep alone on his stone hard bed every night, or not falling asleep at all. Mickey carving his name into his chest like a promise, to remember, to keep himself sane. His throat hurts. “It was hard seeing you,” he says, and it's not an excuse, no – if he isn't able to forgive himself, he doesn't know how Mickey can. “Through that glass.”

That small piece of a laughter, it means _nervous_ too. It means _shut up_ , it means _bullshit_. “Yeah,” Mickey says again. And the air between them is thick and heavy, like a wall – Ian wants to punch it until it is in pieces and his hands are bloody.

Mickey's got a cut under his eye, and Ian wants to ask what happened, but he doesn't – Mickey used to tell him where his scars were from, sometimes, where they weren't too painful. One stab on the thigh, from a drunkard at the Alibi who thought he had stole his drink. One stab on the arm, just under his shoulder, from a thirty-something asshole who had called Mandy a “girlfriend” and meant “toy”. One more faint scar on the back, from the coming out, when his father went mad and tried to stab him with a table leg – Ian was there to see how this one was made, and Mickey never had to tell. He never told about all the scars that his father left on him anyway.

“D'you ever think about me?” Mickey says. And his voice is trembling, his eyes wandering, and oh, God, Mickey. “When I was in the joint?”

“A lot,” Ian says.

Mickey sighs – _weariness, exhaustion, relief_. “Fuck, I missed you,” he says, and it doesn't take more for Ian to get up and kiss him.

And he feels the same, tastes the same, smells the same – Ian doesn't know if he's able to ever run away from this again. Mickey bites, licks, grabs, it's messy and chaotic but it's _them_ and it's _home_. Mickey slides his hand under the hem of his shirt, gripping his neck with the other – _don't go, please, don't go_ – and Ian fucking _melts_ into the touch.

Ian jerks them both off on the couch with Mickey sinking his nails in his skin and whispering incoherent versions of _fuck, yes, yes, yes_. This is not what he would have wanted for this time – he'd rather have done it properly, but they don't have anything for that and it's enough, anyway. It's enough to have Mickey on his back, in his arms, alive and real. It will always be enough. Mickey comes a few seconds after him, with a shout muffled against Ian's shoulder. Ian keeps his hand around them, thrusting and panting and shaking until he can't anymore. With his mind lost in haze and his heart beating too fast, he decides that he never wants to lose this again.

“Jesus fuck,” Mickey says.

Ian laughs, almost delirious. “Yeah,” he says.

“You better fuck me next time,” Mickey says. “Not that I have anything against handjobs, but, y'know, the full thing's better.”

_Next time_ is a promise. Ian smiles. “Sorry for not wanting to destroy your ass,” he says, and Mickey laughs, and Ian kisses him, and it's been so, so long. He can feel Mickey's breath steady against his lips, his muscles relax under his hands. “I love you,” he says after a while.

“Love you, too,” Mickey says.

“We got a lot of talking to do.”

Mickey smiles against his forehead. “Yeah,” he says. “We do that tomorrow morning. 'm fucking exhausted.”

*

_**You (4:15am):** hey _

_**Trev (4:16am):** hey _

_**You (4:16am):** wow I didn't think you'd answer why the fuck aren't you sleeping _

_**Trev (4:16am):** why aren't YOU sleeping _

_**Trev (4:17am):** you're with him? _

_**You (4:17am):** yeah _

_**You (4:17am):** he's asleep _

_**Trevor (4:18am):** guess it went ok then _

_**You (4:18am):** yeah _

_**Trevor (4:19am):** tell me a story _

_**You (4:19am):** once upon a time _

_**You (4:20am):** there was a guy who woke up in the middle of the night and then couldn't sleep until he texted his friend and instantly felt the need to _

_**You (4:20am):** so the guy went to sleep _

_**You (4:21am):** the end _

_**Trev (4:21am):** you fucking  _

_**Trev (4:21am):** you better tell me about it when you come back, asshole _

_**You (4:22am):** good night, trev :) _

_**Trev (4:22am):** sweet dreams, motherfucker _

*

Mandy finds them messing around in her bed the day after. It's ten in the morning, and the sun burns their eyes as she opens the curtains.

“There better not be cum stains on my fucking sheets,” she says. “Brought breakfast. Come in the living room when you're done being disgusting.”

Mickey gets off of Ian, falling back on the mattress with a heavy sound. His laughter is clear and careless. “Didn't think you'd ever let something stop you sucking my dick,” Ian teases. “I'm disappointed, Mick.”

“My sister being at the other side of the fucking door seems like a good reason,” Mickey says.

“Didn't seem to bother you when you sucked me off with my little brother in the same room,” Ian says. “Or all the times we fucked with Mandy right next door, back at your place.”

“Your brother doesn't count – doesn't even know that fucking is a thing. And Mandy didn't know at the time. Can't do anything with her knowing we're banging.”

Ian looks down at Mickey's chest, rising and falling with each breath. “We'll have to fix that,” he says, pointing at the smudged letters on his skin. A promise, too. “When we get back.” And then he realizes what he's just said, realizes that maybe Mickey doesn't want to get back. “If you want to,” he says. “Get back.”

Mickey bends over the bed to get a pack of cigarettes. “Yeah,” Mickey says. “Maybe. I don't know. Nothing much waiting for me here, but –” He lights one. “If you still want my ass there,” he says, “yeah, I'll get back.”

And Ian smiles. He takes a cigarette, too – smoking early in the morning isn't a habit, but Mickey's a bad influence. “Hope so,” he says. “Didn't come all the way from Chicago for you to say no.” It's fake confidence, a joke, and it doesn't feel right. “We have to talk,” he says.

Mickey exhales some smoke. They're on their backs again, Ian's head resting on Mickey's bicep, and he can feel Mickey's fingers running through his hair. “Yeah,” Mickey says. “Yeah, we do.”

And Ian breathes.

He breathes.

 


End file.
